Becoming a Light - Episode 3

By: Kelly McDonald

The key I hid as a  teenager, in a crack between some bricks, still worked as I opened the door of my childhood home. I switched on the lights. They flickered as they always did, like there was something not quite connected. And those same blue drapes hung down at the edges, not completely covering the windows my mother would look out of when I was out way past midnight. Mrs. Dunbar, the nosey neighbor of my youth, stopped on the sidewalk and watched me as I found my way into my aging parents' home.

I suspect the town is still suspicious of me. I was my parents’ only child, and I gave them plenty of grief as I was growing up, going to wild parties, chasing the roughest boys, ending a pregnancy, finally leaving home, loudly vowing to never come back. It's no wonder that Mrs. Dunbar stopped and stared as she was walking by.

Over time, through persistent phone calls from my mother, I somehow reconnected with my parents. My occasional visits were often tempered by my lack of desire to return to this town. After more than twenty years, I’m sure my reputation as a teenager still follows me, from the stares of the residents when I used to visit the grocery store to help my father refill his cupboards with supplies.

But my father’s gone now. They’ll hold his funeral in a few days. He’s been my mother’s primary caregiver for the past few years, since dementia has taken over her life. Luckily for my mother, Mr. Dunbar found my father in the open garage, not too long after his heart attack. The police discovered my number posted next to the old wall phone in my parent’s home. But now, with my father gone, my mother can’t live alone, and she can’t afford to move to the care center, over on 9th Avenue. So I guess I’ll have to move in and take care of her. What a joy it is, moving back into my old bedroom after so many years of being away. Yeah, right.

At my father's funeral, I expected the neighbors to remind me of my youthful behavior as they greeted me at the viewing. But as they came through the line and paid their respects to my parents, they were also gracious and asked me about what would happen to my mother. I quietly responded that I was planning on moving in with her. They respectfully nodded, and a few of the women took my hand.

Mr. Dunbar thanked me for returning home. He was the first person to call me by my given name, Monica, rather than Nicky, which most people have remembered me by, no doubt from hearing my mother yell for me to come home. Mrs. Dunbar stood quietly beside her husband and nodded, though she said nothing to me directly.

My mother’s condition is much worse than I realized. She doesn’t try to take care of herself, but sits quietly until I interact with her. Sometimes, when I move her onto the bench in the shower, she will rub her hands up and down on her arms, as if remembering what the streaming water is for. But usually, she doesn’t know where she is or who I am. Every once in a while, a glimmer of recognition comes into her eyes, and I think she might recognize me. But most of the time, she simply stares out into space, oblivious to the happenings around her. When I try to get her to brush her hair, she throws the hairbrush back at me.

I’ve made arrangements with Mrs. Rockhill, the woman who lives in the house on the other side of us, to stop by a few hours per week and sit with my mother, so I can visit the grocery store or run other errands for the things we need. The Rockhills moved in after my early departure, and they don’t seem to know the history of my family.

My mother has settled into a quiet routine which seems to comfort her. She doesn’t talk to me, but every once in a while, she will quietly mouth the words “thank you,” when I tuck her into bed at night. Her eyes will occasionally dart about, looking at me or the things I’ve placed on the bed. Sometimes her eyes will glimmer like I remember from my childhood, as I tell her about something that happened to me while out and about. But then they drift away into sadness. Perhaps there are still some triggered memories inside her she is reliving, like the time the police brought me home from the loud party they broke up, down by the park.

2.

I’ve been living here with my mother for six months now. What keeps me here? I’m not sure yet. But the neighborhood seems to have accepted me. The whole town now feels like my neighborhood. The butcher in the grocery store gives me an extra slice of steak, after he weighs my purchase. The policeman downtown, helping the school children cross the street, blows his whistle at me, then waves. Women smile and offer to be of help, if I need a hand with my mother.

We’ve gotten into the habit of taking walks. That means I walk, pushing my mother in her wheelchair. She is usually unresponsive to these brief trips. But this morning, after pushing her to the park, I was resting for a few minutes. An older couple came walking by, old friends of my parents. When they stopped to greet us, my mother said nothing, but she smiled. And they warmly called me “Monica” as they spoke to me.

Now, when I go to the grocery store, I try to be the first to say hello as I stand in line for checkout. When my mother’s napping, I’ll sometimes bring up my old toys from the basement and put them near the sidewalk with a ‘Free Toys’ sign to alert the neighborhood kids. Mrs. Dunbar’s grandchildren usually run over to our yard, when they arrive, to see if there are any new treasures to their liking. I even took over an old wading pool we had, when I saw them out on Mrs. Dunbar’s lawn, running through the sprinkler. Am I becoming my mother’s replacement in the friendly interactions of my hometown? 

This morning, as I was moving the trash bin out to the street, Mrs. Dunbar came by on her walk.

“How are you?” I said and smiled as she walked up the sidewalk.

She hesitated, no doubt feeling uneasy, but asked, “How is your mother doing today?”

“Not great. She had a rough night but she’s napping now.”

“I’m so sorry for the loss of your father, and the life challenges for your mother.” She continued.

“Thank you.” 

Then, after a pause, she said, “This is a good thing that you are doing for your parents, Monica.” She reached out and gave me a hug.

I surprised myself when I hugged her back. “Thanks again, Mrs. Dunbar.”

“Call me Shirlene.”